


Last Man Standing

by eveshka



Series: Tales of the Dawn King [11]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eveshka/pseuds/eveshka
Summary: And yet, somehow, every morning he awoke and kept going. The last man standing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: None  
> Characters: Gladiolus Amicitia, Aranea Highwind, Biggs Callux, Iris Amicitia, Cindy Aurum, Talcott Hester, Gentiana  
> Time Period: After the Dawn  
> Location: Insomnia, Leide, Hammerhead

Aranea Highwind had taken Prompto’s death hard. Gladio hadn't thought she'd shown her true age until after she and Gladio had raised a glass for Prompto, and she'd handed the warrior a key. It was to the place in Lestallum, she'd explained. She’d loved it because Prompto had loved it… because it had been Ignis’. She couldn't go back without the blond. Gladio understood. He loved it much for the same reasons.

They'd become drinking buddies after that. He'd moved into the townhouse in Lestallum, and she sent word when she was in town. Sometimes Iris joined them, but most times she was down rebuilding Caem again, saying that an Amicitia needed to be involved. Gladio knew it was because Jared and Cor were buried there, and she felt it her duty to look after them. Some days he still couldn't believe that pneumonia had gotten the best of Cor, but without magic, disease had moved back in. Scientific medicine had a long way to grow.

It wasn't a surprise when Biggs turned up, holding his hat. She'd gone in her sleep, peaceful and calm. The surprise, Gladio thought, was that she'd made it five years past Prompto. And that was how Gladiolus Amicitia celebrated his fiftieth birthday; burying the fierce dragoon beside the love of her life on the hill overlooking Insomnia.

They were all there, not that the world knew. The Tomb in Insomnia was empty, though the only person left alive that knew it was Gladio. Even Iris believed Noctis was in that tomb as far as Gladio was aware. Noctis, however, was here with Ignis at his side, buried far away from the pomp and herald. Prompto too, beside Ignis, and now Aranea was beside Prompto, where Gladio felt she belonged. One day, Gladio would take his place beside Noctis, and the world would go on unknowing.

He had, after all, made Iris promise to bury him here. It was marked, too, a rock placed where he should be, and damn if that wasn't macabre, pointing to the rock and making Iris swear to bury him there instead of at Caem. He'd been relentless, though. He'd told her that this had been where they'd said their goodbyes to Noctis, and that Ignis and Prompto were already here, and she had tearfully accepted that.

But for now, Gladio still walked the world, and he'd gone back to Lestallum, packed his books and his sword, handed the keys to the surprised Biggs, and moved forthwith to Hammerhead.

 

Cindy was older than he was, which was something he'd often forgotten, but she was just as sassy and beautiful, and while she was still married to her work, she was glad to have a 'strong handsome man' around the place. She'd told Gladio that he'd improved the scenery, then laughed and set him to work.

By his fifty-second birthday, Gladio was a permanent fixture in the garage, lifting engines and doing whatever Cindy told him to do. Even at almost sixty, she could drink him under the table, slap him when he got fresh, and hold him when the darkness was too deep. Anyone who didn't know thought she was the older sister, and they were both just fine with that.

But time passed, and all too soon Gladio was alone in Hammerhead, the saucy blonde gone to bed one night and never waking again. He buried her behind the station next to Cid, and soldiered on. Talcott and Iris came up, bringing with them Talcott’s wife Clara, and the smallest baby girl Gladio had ever seen. He was marveling at the fact that her head nestled in his hand when Talcott told him she was named Lucia. Gladio hadn't been able to see for a while after that.

Eventually, they’d gone back to Caem, and Gladio had stayed in Hammerhead. He knew enough about cars now to keep the old place open, and it was a decent enough living. Sometimes Iris came by, and he was always glad to see her. She'd ask if he'd found anyone, and he'd remind her that he didn't need anyone at his side. It was, of course, a lie, but Iris didn't need to know that.

Some nights Gladio didn't sleep, wondering if defeating Gilgamesh had made him immortal in a fashion. After all, no one else had done it, so it was as much a mystery to him as anyone. He aged, yes, there was an undeniable amount of silver in his hair now, but sickness and disease passed him by. He spent his sixtieth birthday on the hill, drinking quietly next to the graves of his friends.

When Iris died, Gladio buried her with Cor and Jared at Caem, and then locked himself into his routine back in Hammerhead and didn't look back. Rise before the dawn, watch the sun rise. Work on the day’s cars, eat dinner. He never ate breakfast or lunch. A drink before bed, and then the same prayer to the now-silent Six: _Let this be my last night upon this world, and grant me passage to the next_. And yet, somehow, every morning he awoke and kept going. The last man standing. Suddenly, he knew how Ardyn must have felt.

He stopped working on cars at sixty-two, though he stayed in Hammerhead. Talcott and Clara came up from Caem and took over, the five year old Lucia eagerly sitting with her Uncle Gladdy and listening to every story he was willing to tell her. He told her lots of things, filling her head with tales of fishing and hunting and everything a little girl might want to hear about chocobos. He kept the darkness to himself, though. And every night, he kissed her hair and sent her off to her parents, then whispered his prayer into the darkness and closed his eyes. And still he woke before the dawn.

 

At sixty-five, Gladio was still imposing. He wasn't as broad of shoulder, but he was still a lean and muscular figure. His hair was silver, his scars faded to thin lines. His eyes were still as sharp and bright, though he laughed far less than he had in his younger days. And he was tired. Tired of living, tired of meeting the sun, tired of driving to the old blockade and then hiking up to the overlook on birthdays to tend the graves. He was ready, had _been_ ready. A life lived alone weighed heavy on his soul.

Gladio drove out, hiked up the hill and dug his own grave, though Talcott called that the damnedest thing he'd ever heard. It filled in twice and Gladio dug it out both times before the third fill-in set Gladio to cursing as he hadn't done since his youth, prompting Talcott to swear that he wouldn't let them bury Gladio anywhere but there when the time came. _If_ the time came, Gladio thought bitterly.

Still, he persevered. He'd spent his sixty-seventh birthday getting absolutely shitfaced drunk sitting on the overlook, alternately cursing the Six for leaving him behind and begging them to let him go. Gladio, for all his fight and sharp anger as a youth, had been honed by bitterness and regret in his maturity. And still he woke before the dawn, stiff from having spent the night in a camp chair. Resigned to his seeming immortality, Gladio returned to Hammerhead and kept on living.

And then one night, he dreamt of a woman with long black hair and eyes that reminded him of spring leaves. Gentiana, he recalled, the messenger woman in companionship to the Lady Lunafreya. She stood in his bedroom, looking at him in the pale light, waiting for him to become aware of her. And when he did, she asked him a single question: _Why do you punish yourself so?_ He didn't understand, and awoke before the dawn, with more questions than answers.

The only brightness in his days was the sandy-haired Lucia, bringing him things she found around the area, leiden peppers and those small coins that Gladio remembered Noctis using in his elemancy. As much as the sight of the coins hurt, he welcomed them because Lucia brought them to him and no-one else. He had a jar filled with them now. They'd counted them together one day, sixty-eight. As many coins as Gladio was old. He prayed he wouldn't see another year.

 

But life wasn't kind and the gods were gone, and Gladio had long given up caring. His seventy-first birthday night was under the open stars with nothing more than the graves now grown over to grass, a sword, a sleeping bag, and a big damned attitude. His hair was almost white, his skin tanned and tattoo faded, but he was still the scariest thing in Leide, and he knew it. He'd started his prayer and then let the words fade into the night, looking up at the stars. It didn't matter. They were gone and he was still here. His words wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. He awoke before the sun, and watched it rise with a bitter smile.

Most people gave Gladio a wide birth in Hammerhead, believing he'd given up on life and simply opted to exist. In truth, he'd given up on death and didn't know what to do with himself. He'd fought to live, to be strong enough to protect Noctis from anything, and in the doing so had very likely conquered the one thing from which he couldn't protect his king. That just made him angrier and bitterer, and in the end, he stood alone at the overlook, a bottle and a dagger in his hands. Fine, he'd test it. He'd get drunk enough to have the courage to stick the blade into himself and see what came of it. If he died, then at least it would all be over.

But he couldn't, could he? He couldn't take that path, couldn't give in to the cowardice he fought so hard against. He threw the bottle with an angry roar, watching it soar end over end into the blackness over the waters of the Lucian Sound, tipping his head backwards to glare up at the stars and scream his anger into the night. When he had no voice left for it, he turned and trudged back to his car.

Angry at himself, angry at the world, angry at the _gods-damned Six_ , Gladio came to a stop when he saw Gentiana standing by his car. “The hell are you doing here?” He growled, anger fueling his steps towards her. “I’m through playing games. You’re a messenger of the Gods and I haven’t heard a damn thing from any of them since the Dawn. If they’ve got a message for me now, they can damned well keep it.” He wasn’t surprised when she faded from sight, and as much as he knew, it had all been in his head. With a sigh, he got in his car and drove back to Hammerhead.

 

He was crossing the parking lot when a spike of pain tore through his chest and dropped him to his knees. He fell hard, winded by pain and impact, and his vision clouded. He heard Lucia’s voice as if from a distance and the only thing he could think was: _No, not in front of her_. He rallied himself, acknowledged the pain and pushed through it to rise unsteadily to his feet. 

Gladio waved Lucia’s concerns off, though he let her help him back to his room and once he was seated, she ran off for the first aid kit to tend to the knee that he’d scraped. His vision clouded further, and he took several deep steadying breaths, focusing on the pain as it shot through him again, and trying to use it to stay clearheaded as he had when fighting alongside Noctis.

The door opened, and for a moment, Gladio was disoriented. Hadn’t he been waiting for Lucia? What was he doing here anyway? Reading? The book he’d been trying to focus on rested heavy in his hand. Amber eyes looked up to ocean blues, and the latter crinkled into a tolerant smile. “Gladio, it’s time.”

With a grunt of affirmation, Gladio rose easily from the chair, setting the book to the side and moving towards the bedroom door. “Alright.”


End file.
